Well, despite my lack of neurosurgeon appointments and physical therapy, the weather forced me into the gym this morning where I walked 3.2 miles in one hour! Yea me. I felt a little conspicuous because I know that 3.2 mph is not really all that impressive so if people don't know about my recovery they're most likely just thinking, wow, fat people sure have to walk slow. I wanted to tell everyone around me, "I know it's slow but I just had surgery and this is actually quite fast for me," but unlike my mother, I generally avoid telling random strangers my personal life. The gym did have it's advantages in that I realized that I have lost quite a bit of aerobic strength because my heart rate got up there walking 3.2mph. Also, I remembered why I hate the gym: because it is boring as fuck and there is nothing to look out without looking like you're staring. I held out some hope that I would see someone I knew so they could chat me up and I could say, "I know it's slow but with my surgery this is actually quite fast for me," but no one I knew was at the gym. After my hypersonic 3.2 miles, I went for a swim. Let me just say that the clientele in the pool at 9:00 in the morning is quite different than the clientele in the pool any other time of the day. I actually startled when I walked in. I was at least 30 years too young to be in the pool or I was missing several tattoos. I swam 10 laps (or 5 laps if you only count up and back as one lap) because I thought, since I hadn't been to physical therapy and wasn't sure what I should be doing perhaps I shouldn't go balls to the wall on my first swim. Good thing too because I was straight wore out and decided to get in the spa where I'm hoping I didn't contract some kind of flesh eating disease or a yeast infection. That felt so fantastic that I entertained the notion of researching a spa for my house until the clientele changed and I got creeped out and left at a the pace that would be the exact opposite of hypersonic.
On my way to my mom's house to not put the pan underneath the turkey because I, of course, did that yesterday like I was supposed to, I felt sufficiently wore out and calm to attempt to call the doctor's office. After 15 minutes of trying, I finally got the referral lady who told me that the PA I saw on Thursday wrote a note saying that I was doing well, not reporting any new pain, but it might be ok for me to go to the neurologist. I said, "AHHHHHHHHHH I DON'T WANT TO GO TO THE NEUROLOGIST! I WANT TO GO TO THE NEUROSURGEON- THE ONE WHO DID MY SURGERY." The lady said, "I don't know why he put that." "I do," I replied, "He kept saying, you want to go to the neurologist? And I kept saying no, I want to go to the neurosurgeon." Far be it for me to assume that the PA would understand the difference between the two, but perhaps this is also part of my problem. She was supposed to write the actual doctor a note. I said, "Put on there that I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing or anything ahhrrrhh." She was supposed to call me back, but you'll be surprised to know that she did not.
After that I went to my second job which if I don't have next semester will not make me sad, because I am beyond over that place.
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